


lay in my teeth

by elijah_was_a_prophet



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Cunnilingus, F/F, Fingerfucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25898512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elijah_was_a_prophet/pseuds/elijah_was_a_prophet
Summary: Some time away. Melanie falls deeper into the Spiral.
Relationships: Melanie King/Helen | The Distortion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27
Collections: Femslash After Dark 2020





	lay in my teeth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starforged](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starforged/gifts).



The itch, it burned under her skin. 

She couldn't cry anymore. Even thinking on what Elias had shown her, the rotted out retirement home- it was like her horror and grief belonged to someone else's body. She felt an empty roaring numbness at her core, nodding through conversations with Basira and Martin, the only thought in her head how quickly the pen in her hand could go through their eyes. 

She slept in the basement and dreamed of rivers of gore. Endless empty rage and killing fields, cairns of bones, flesh laid bare on the ground. When she woke the scent of blood was still in her nose, and she held fast a knife in her shirtsleeve and plotted the murder of everyone she knew. Elias, first, may the bastard never stop suffering, and then Jon, who she wished she'd never met. Statements, that'd all he cared about. 

It made her blood boil. Let him try and record another statement after she ripped his throat out. 

All she could think about was murder, because there wasn't much else to occupy her time. Pad around the archives. Look at dusty records. Make tea, and then make tea again because you left the last cup on a shelf somewhere and its gone cold. She was going insane minute by minute, trapped in a building that shrunk and grew at the same instant. 

"How do you do it?" she asked Basira. 

"Do what?" 

She waved her hand around, at the filing cabinets and musty objects and assorted tape decks. They were in some subsection of a subsection with no official name- the paint on the door had worn off and nobody felt like fixing it when every dusty room felt like the other. 

"We're safer here. At least this way we know when something might kill us." 

"And when the Circus does come?" 

"We'll have the best chance of stopping it." 

She had two stacks of documents, one to be shoved back in the cabinets and one to be read and analyzed later. Her nails were bitten down but she still had a curious vitality, a purpose, Melanie realizes, a reason to keep working. Melanie would have admired her if she wasn't so jealous. Her ire was a dull blade compared to the rage she felt against Jon and Elias, but any skin will break if struck enough times. 

"I need a break," she said after a few more minutes of quiet, focused work. "See you at lunch, or whenever I get back." 

"Where are you going?" 

"Martin mentioned an artifacts room past the one with all the burnt files I might like." 

That was a lie, but nobody was there to see her take a left and go down to a long-forgotten part of the basement. Well. As close as she could get to nobody. Knowing that Elias was probably watching filled her with a childish urge to give him the two finger salute. 

She shoved in a gap between two shelves to find a set of sitting room furniture, boring floral print all wrapped in plastic. The only sign that someone had been through recently was a discarded blanket in one of the chairs and a cold mug of tea. 

"Martin, pick up your fucking dishes," she told the mug. It didn't reply, so she picked it up and dashed it against the wall. She felt better, for a minute, and then was so embarrassed she had to leave the way she came. 

She found a set of sitting room furniture, boring floral print all wrapped in plastic. There was a mug of team, still steaming, and a discarded blanket hanging off the arm of the couch. She turned to look behind and saw the side of the shelf she'd entered the first spot from. 

Her mind snapped from annoyance to observation, like it had been back when she'd been ghost hunting. It'd been easy to grow disoriented in old, poorly maintained buildings, but with a good eye and some basic thought she usually made it out alright. Pulling her knife from her pocket, she went over to the chair and made a slice in the side of the plastic. Then she pushed through the shelves again. 

This time the sitting room set was burnt, the mug shattered on the floor and tea stains on the carpet. Something was definitely up. To check, she went back to what should have been the room where she slit the plastic and found the sitting room set covered in blood. There was no mug in sight. Taking her knife in hand, she crept along a shelf until she reached what had once been the door into her secret section of the basement. The door was unlocked, so she opened it with her blade raised. 

There was a different corridor waiting. 

Plush green carpet with white diamonds lay next to brown wainscoting, which was underneath gold and scarlet wallpaper. The ceiling was white and gold panels, and on every third one hung a chandelier where the lights were made to look like little candles with red shades. She stepped out and the door clicked behind her; she blinked at it and it was gone, replaced by a stretch of plain wall. 

Seeing no way forwards or backwards, she began walking. A door lay up ahead, but when she reached it she found that it was merely the illusion of a door, painted onto the wall with such skill that someone might reach for the doorknob and struggle to turn it before realizing the truth. There was also an intersection, and she took the right hand turn. That's what they always said to do in unfamiliar mazes, to pick one turning path and stick to it. 

The carpet was so thick her footsteps made no noise, and no noise came from behind the walls. There were no softly blowing air con vents like she'd seen in foreign hotels of this grandeur, no door numbers or staircases or cleaning carts or the scent of illicit cigars. Only walking. 

Time was irrelevant. 

She walked. 

Even if the others decided to look for her (which didn't happen all the time; one of the most curious aspects of imprisonment within the archives was the isolation it created between its prisoners) even if they did go searching for Melanie King they'd find nothing. This was not the institute, which presented to her a new question- could Elias see her in this space? She hoped not, since if he could see her wanderings then he'd probably be laughing in glee. She was tiring. She leaned on the wall for support and kept walking. 

Her hip painfully smacked into a doorknob and she yelped, then grabbed it and yanked the door open. Inside was a set of sitting room furniture, a steaming mug of tea, and a woman whose black hair spun into curls so tight they floated above her shoulders. 

"You arrived," she said. 

The Spiral, Melanie realized. She recognized it from the descriptions she'd heard from Jon, how it'd once been a Michael and now was a Helen. She'd never seen Michael, but Helen cut a nice figure, and she didn't have any reason to be frustrated with her besides the constant low level frustration she now felt at all times. 

Melanie sat on one of the chairs and took the mug of tea. Unsweetened, a deep brown and thin in her mouth. She watched Helen drum her fingers on the arm of the chair and thought. 

"Where is this?" 

"Nowhere. At least not on any map." 

"And I am here because-?" 

"I brought you. We are not so unalike, you and I. Both avatars of forces we do not understand and which people shy from.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You don’t have to be angry.” 

Melanie almost responded, but the words already felt bladed in her mouth and so she stopped. There was no point in attacking, especially since she was at her mercy, and she hadn’t really done anything to earn her ire. Yet. 

“Then I won’t be.” 

Helen smiled, and her smile grew past her face and up her cheeks, skin unzipping, rows of teeth unrolling, red pink gums bright and white teeth healthy. 

“I once sat in a dark warehouse of burnt corpse ghosts. You’ll have to try harder than that to scare me.” 

“I wouldn’t want to scare you, Melanie.” Her voice comes from three throats now. “I’m- it’s just very lonely here, in this dimension. And you wanted some way out. The Eye cannot see into the Spiral.” 

“So are you going to consume me?” 

“Doesn’t feel right to do it. But I miss the warmth of other people’s hands. Eye contact. Hearing someone breathe. Helen misses that, and that’s who I have to be.” 

“I believe it.” 

Time feels like it passes differently inside these nonexistent rooms, but it can’t be more than three minutes before Melanie reaches out and touches Helen’s hand. It is neither warm nor cool, the neutral feel of something left in your pocket that’s absorbed a moderate amount of body heat but still could never be counted as warm. 

She continued to move, sliding her hand up Helen’s arm, feeling the unusual smoothness of it. Where her own arms were thin Helen’s were built, and where in the fold of her elbow blue veins showed Helen’s skin covered. She applied pressure and felt movement underneath, like there were machine parts where bones should be. Constant rotation and revolution. 

“Whatever you’d like, I’ll give,” Helen whispered. She slipped open the top button of her cardigan. More smooth skin showed, the top curve of her breasts and the jut of her sternum. Melanie considered, then leaned forwards and kissed right above her undershirt. There hadn’t been many opportunities in her years of running to touch. 

She reached up and rolled the undershirt down. There was no bra underneath. Helen’s many mouths were still open and Melanie arched up to kiss one while she grabbed a tit in each hand. She liked to sink her fingers in to the bone, squeeze until the flesh deformed and it left finger shaped bruises. 

“Ah!” Helen cried when Melanie bit around her collarbone. “You’re very physical.” 

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

Helen dragged the last letter out when Melanie slid a hand up her skirt, fingers hooking in the side of her underwear. Her knuckles were quickly covered in slick, and she made Helen moan when she pressed them in deeper. 

“Hope your cunt isn’t like your mouth, or I’ll have no idea where to put my fingers,” she said. 

Instead of responding Helen unzipped her skirt and pushed it past her knees. Looking at it, Melanie was still confused, but she leaned her head forward and put her mouth on a promising looking bit that made Helen’s calves jerk. It tasted salty-musky and dripped down her chin. When she raised her hands and pushed three fingers into another section of newly exposed folds it stuck to her skin and ran down her arm. 

Whatever she was touching was making Helen lose it, her hands grabbing Melanie’s hair and reaching down her back and wrapping around her wrists. Six, eight, twelve, twenty hands all with quadruple jointed fingers. Two pressed along the inseam of her jeans and she gasped; she hadn’t noticed herself getting wet. 

“I want you inside me,” she said, mouth still working a double-headed clit. Her fingers slid deeper and she found space for four, slowly curling them into a spongy press of flesh. “Fuck.” 

Two hands unbuttoned her jeans and slid them down to her mid-thighs. Four slid between those same thighs, pulling them as wide as the denim would allow, letting a few fingers slip up and rub her clit, more hands from above sliding down the neck of her shirt to grab her tits. 

“You feel wonderful.” Helen was adding fingers to Melanie’s cunt, gently testing the stretch of it. “Warm.” 

With such long fingers it was easy for Helen to massage Melanie’s G-spot and her back wall at the same time. It made her entire pelvis pulse, warmth flowing from the base of her spine up. She moaned, not caring who heard, arched her back like she wanted to drown in Helen’s cunt while her own dripped. 

“Do it,” Melanie panted, resting her head on Helen’s inner thigh. “Make me come.” 

“That’s up to you. Work for it.” 

Melanie growled and sucked a clit between her teeth. “Come on.” 

Helen yelped and began stroking her again. She kept the threat of teeth there, barely hovering, and even after she came once she bit into Helen’s thigh and made her keep going. If she couldn’t satisfy herself with actual blood then she’d satisfy herself with sex, the room beginning to reek of sweat and the drying slick on her thighs. They chased one another in circles, trying to see who’d tap out first. Overstimulated, overworked, overwhelmed, they began to fuse together into one bizarre amalgamation of flesh which desired itself. 

“I can’t feel my legs,” Helen said after a time. 

“Me either.” 

They quit moving, at an impasse. Melanie rolled her head out from Helen’s flesh, stood, and almost fell over while trying to pull her pants up. Her entire face, from her eyebrows down her chin, was soaked. Even her hands had gone wrinkly. 

“If you ever need this again-” 

“-not anytime soon.” 

“But if you need it again, I’ll be waiting.” She kissed Melanie on the mouth and led her to the door. “Take two lefts and you’ll be back.” 

Walking, left, walking, left, and she was standing back in the hidden corner in the archives where an old cup of tea sat on sitting room furniture. She pushed through the shelf gap and found what she’d expect- dusty rows of files, spaces where her own hands had moved boxes and left broken marks. 

“We are not so different,” she told the empty space, and drank the cold cup.


End file.
